The Primordial Bodycraft was an art ancient beyond reckoning, a defiance not merely of the frailties of flesh, but of the immutable laws which governed existence itself. Without a will as unyielding as tempered iron and a perseverance that brooked no despair, none could so much as hope to tread the threshold of its first step: the Gathering of Essence.
In the boundless world of Eldoria, myriad paths to power unfolded before mortals and immortals alike; yet, despite their seeming diversity, all cultivators' journeys could be divided into five sovereign Realms: Awakening, Transcendence, Dominion, Demi-Godhood, and at last, Ascendancy.
Each Realm was itself subdivided into Nine Stages, the sacred numerology of the ancients woven into the very fabric of advancement.
The Primordial Bodycraft, grim and exacting, imposed four monumental trials within the Awakening Realm.
The first among them was Essence Gathering; only through mastery of this stage could the aspirant advance unto Channel Opening.
Thereafter, upon the successful opening of the vital conduits, one would embark upon the arduous journey of Tendon Remolding, and thence, to the formidable trial of Bone Tempering. When the tempering of the bones had been brought to completion, a true metamorphosis would be wrought upon the body, granting the practitioner the right to shatter the fetters of mortality and ascend into the exalted Transcendence Realm.
"The essence I gather remains too meager by far!" Kaelen Draven murmured between gritted teeth, his breath ragged with the strain of yet another failure. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, the iron tang of it staining his tongue, yet he refused utterly to relinquish his endeavor.
"Of the twelve Vital Channels, but two have I succeeded in opening... and beyond them lie the Eight Hidden Veins. How long must I endure before I may complete the Remolding of Tendons?"
The cultivation of the Primordial Bodycraft was a terror unto itself.
Many had set their feet upon its path, lured by the grandeur of its name; yet few indeed had lived to tell of their folly, the greater number perishing with regret gnawing at their bones, unable even to attain a minor success before their appointed hour of death.
The sun had risen high in the firmament. Morning training was drawing to a close.
Kaelen had remained motionless as a statue throughout, seated upon a weathered stone amidst the forest clearing. It had been two long years since he had succeeded in opening his second channel — and in all that time, he had gained no further ground.
Before him loomed a wall unseen, insurmountable as it was unyielding.
Yet though the bitterness of failure gnawed at his heart, Kaelen remained unbroken. His stubbornness mirrored that of his long-departed master, Valen Stoneheart, who in his prime had been named among the most steadfast of men.
With grim determination, Kaelen resumed the sacred circulation of his Bodycraft technique, drawing forth the lingering threads of essence which drifted in the morning air. Slowly, methodically, he gathered them into a spinning maelstrom deep within his core.
The vortex, swelling and churning, compressed the gathered energy until it trembled upon the verge of collapse.
When the burden grew beyond his body's endurance, Kaelen, jaw set and eyes fierce, thrust the condensed mass toward his third Vital Channel, seeking to batter down its unseen barriers by sheer force of will.
The torrent of power surged through his body like a dammed river suddenly unleashed, his slender channels swelling dangerously under the onslaught.
"Boom!"
A thunderous peal, muffled yet unmistakable, resounded from within.
Kaelen's body spasmed violently. Blood burst from his lips, and he toppled from his stone seat, falling into the thick carpet of grass below.
There he lay, gazing upward through the latticed canopy of leaves, wherein spirit-birds flitted and the clouds drifted indifferently by.
Yet in his storm-grey eyes there was neither despair nor terror — only that fierce, unyielding will which no failure could extinguish.
Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself upright, the taste of blood still sharp in his mouth.
He wiped it away with the sleeve of his robe and cast his gaze toward the towering silhouette of the main peak.
Already, the other young disciples were descending from the rear slopes, their morning training concluded.
They were his peers, fellow members of the Mystic Dawn Sect — though few among them would deign to name Kaelen thus.
The Mystic Dawn Mountain rose unto the heavens, its craggy peak eternally wreathed in cloud and mist. Along its flanks clung ancient shrines and weathered halls, hidden amidst the ethereal vapors.
Only those of proven strength and seniority were permitted to train upon the main peak; fledgling disciples such as Kaelen, weak and unproven, were relegated to the shadowed forests of the lower slopes.
"Still no breakthrough..." he muttered, his fingers brushing lightly across the injuries left within his battered channels. The wall barring his third passage had loosened, perhaps, but by so little that it might as well have remained unbroken.
"Eight years... and I remain shackled to the Awakening Realm's Third Stage. Hah!"
The laugh that escaped his lips was bitter, harsh.
"Even Rowan Gale — that simpering fool among the side branches — has risen to the Fifth Stage."
The thought of Rowan Gale, ever a source of scorn and derision, soured Kaelen's mood further.
Those who practiced the more conventional arts of elemental manipulation advanced with relative ease; yet Kaelen, who had chosen the ancient and accursed Primordial Bodycraft, struggled mightily and gained naught for his labors.
In this brutal world of cultivation, strength was the one coin of true value. The weak were not merely dismissed; they were trampled without mercy.
Adjusting the tattered hem of his robe, Kaelen squared his shoulders and began his journey toward the central peak.
The mountain path was narrow and treacherous, its edges lined with wildflowers and gnarled roots.
The scent of rain-dampened earth and distant blooms filled the air with a heavy sweetness.
Though his wounds still throbbed with every step, Kaelen pressed on without pause, his resilience honed by years of hardship and the merciless demands of his Bodycraft.
As he neared the more traveled roads, more disciples came into view, most passing him by without so much as a glance. Some, however, sneered openly at the sight of him, their disdain laid bare.
Kaelen met their scorn with a mask of icy indifference.
Yet even that brittle peace was not to last.
A raucous peal of laughter split the air ahead.
"Well, well! If it isn't the sect's crowning failure — little Kaelen himself! Or should I say 'the Forsaken One'?"
Three youths in immaculate white robes, their belts marked with the insignia of senior disciples, strode arrogantly down the path.
The leader, a young man with a cruel twist to his smile, spoke loudly enough that all nearby would hear.
Behind him, two others chuckled in low, malicious tones.
Kaelen's expression darkened, but he offered no reply.
Instead, he turned wordlessly and stepped onto a narrow path leading into the deeper woods.
"Ho there! Where dost thou flee, little failure?"
The trio called mockingly after him, their voices thick with cruel mirth.
Nearby disciples, sensing trouble, quickened their steps and averted their gazes.
Kaelen came to a halt, his hands curling into fists.
Slowly, he turned to face them.
"Whom dost thou call a failure?" he demanded, his voice low but filled with a quiet menace.
The leader laughed, stepping forward with an air of mock bravado.
"Why, thee, of course! And thy wretched old master too! That so-called 'Primordial Bodycraft' of thine? Trash — fit only for dogs and beggars! Yet here thou art, still clinging to the delusion that it be a treasure. Pathetic!"
The words, laced with scorn, struck harder than any blow.
Kaelen's knuckles whitened as he fought to master his rising fury.